The Malfoy Chronicles
by Anjali Organna
Summary: Seventh Year--Draco begins training for his new life. Meanwhile, Hermione and Blaise have A Chat, Lucius spills the beans and sends an owl, and Voldemort plots.
1. The Game of Kings: Part One

**AN: **A bit of explanation. If the ending seems abrupt, that's because it is. This is the first _part_ of three to the first _chapter (titled __The Game of Kings). There will be six __chapters to _The Malfoy Chronicles_ in all, but I'm cutting up the chapters on ff.net for streamlining issues—this first chapter alone will probably be around 20 pages. The story will eventually be posted at Fiction Alley (Schnoogle) with the chapters in their entirety, so check it out—under the name Anjali Organna. The title and chapter titles are from Dorothy Dunnett's wonderful __Lymond __Chronicles, a series of six novels. The chapter titles are from her book titles. Anyone confused? Excellent! It's rated PG-13 for language and some violence. Hope you enjoy!_

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter or _The Lymond Chronicles_, and am not making any profit off of this, blah blah blah.

**The Malfoy Chronicles**

_By Jess_

**Part One: The Game of Kings**

_Europe, poised delicately over a brand-new board, waited for the opening gambit._

Hogwarts in the fall was always beautiful. 

The leaves were turning that brilliant shade of red-gold that no one, wizard or Muggle, had ever been able to accurately capture on canvas. The towers were bathed in butter by the dying sun and the air was crisp with fresh beginnings and high expectations.

Draco Malfoy couldn't have been more oblivious. 

Oh, he noticed the scenery and appreciated it with the same casual detachment that he viewed all beautiful things. But at the moment, he didn't even notice; he was too caught up in cursing at Crabbe and Goyle for making him late to his final Welcome Feast and Sorting. 

It was funny that he, Draco Malfoy, should be upset over missing a school function. Everyone knew that Hogwarts was firmly entrenched in the realm of that crackpot Muggle-lover, Albus Dumbledore. But the Sorting was still tradition, and Draco firmly believed in following tradition. 

It was one aspect of his personality that both pleased and irked his father. On one hand, it obviously meant that Draco loved the rituals and secrecy that Lucius insisted upon shrouding the Malfoy name and lineage in. But on the other hand, it meant that Draco was also enthralled with history. Specifically, Muggle European history, and all the pomp and circumstance that went along with the subject. He didn't necessarily _like Muggles; after all, he personally thought it a miracle that these people had gotten along so far without magic. But unlike his father, he didn't outright _hate_ them._

Lucius wasn't too happy about that, either. In fact, it had been the catalyst for their most recent fight. Draco had wanted to take the History Seminar, a comprehensive historical course offered only to a select group of qualifying seventh years. The course wove together both Muggle and wizard history, and Lucius had told his son in no uncertain terms that such material was not only unnecessary, but unsuitable for a Malfoy. Draco retorted (with as much superiority that he could muster) that knowledge, in and of itself, is never unnecessary nor unsuitable, as it can only help the student. Lucius told him not to talk back. Draco did so anyway.

So. It came to the inevitable end, with Lucius forbidding his son to take the class, Draco replying that there wasn't a damn thing his father could do about it, and Lucius responding by throwing some of Draco's history texts into the fire.

He hadn't spoken to his father for two weeks.

But eventually, the resolution was the same as always: Draco was needed to appear at some party or other his father was throwing, so Lucius mollified his son with presents and permission to take the seminar. Draco accepted them as he always did, but the anger and resentment still lingered.

Finally, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle hurrying along the path, and motioned impatiently at them. They lumbered up the stairs, spluttering apologies and explanations, which Draco waved off (something about a squirrel and a stick) and all three entered the castle only a few minutes late.

*

The Great Hall was decked out in the festive house colors. Firelight from torches set in the walls reflected off of window panes and played on shiny faces, bright and trilling with happy anticipation. The long tables were set with military precision; every fork, spoon and knife was exactly perpendicular to the table edge, as though they didn't dare be caught out of place.

The Sorting was the same as every year. Apprehensive first years huddled together before the school, staring out at the assembly with wide eyes. After each of the Hat's pronouncements, the child would shoot off the stage and into the welcoming bosom of his or her new House, relief at being accepted plastered all over the young face. Draco still remembered his own nervousness, thinking with all his might_ Slytherin! Slytherin!_ as he picked up the Hat, the heady relief after he was Sorted. 

Now, he clapped politely with the correct degree of disinterested approval every time someone was Sorted into Sytherin. As one of two senior Slytherin prefects, Draco would be expected to at least know the faces of everyone in his House, even if he never deigned to talk to them.

After the Sorting, Dumbledore rose and announced the new Head Boy and Girl. Draco already knew it was Neville Longbottom and Hermione Granger, as his father hadn't stopped seething for a week after he'd found out. ("An idiot and a Mudblood, _that's_ the best Hogwarts has to offer?!") 

Neville and Hermione stood up amidst much applause from three of the four Houses, the former blushing awkwardly and the latter smiling self-consciously. 

Blaise Zabini leaned over. "Pathetic," she pronounced, and Draco nodded absently, his eyes fixed on the other two thirds of the Wonder Trio. Both Potter and Weasley were beaming so hard it looked as though they'd slept with hangers in their mouths. Draco looked away.

Dumbledore finished up with his usual announcements ("Stay away from the Forbidden Forest," blah blah blah), and then the platters were filled and the occupants of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry got down to the very serious business of eating.

***

Ginny Weasley reached over and gave her friends a congratulatory pat on the back. Hermione smiled at her, and Neville blushed even harder. They had all known the appointments since midsummer, when Hermione had received the notification letter and gone screaming to the Burrow.

Ginny herself was a prefect, a position she was only slightly adjusted to. Growing up within a household of boys had taught her at a very early age the _flexibility_ of rules. The only reason why Harry and Ron weren't prefects, she knew, was because they had broken and/or blatantly ignored entirely too many school rules over the years for anyone else to take them seriously as rule enforcers. Hermione herself had only gotten to be Head Girl due to her impeccable academic record, as well as the fact that most of the rules she _had broken were simply done so in an effort to keep her idiot friends from killing themselves._

Ginny knew that Hermione was born for the position of Head Girl, but she worried about Neville's ability to assert his authority over the more…difficult members of the school community. However, when she voiced her fears, Hermione simply replied that Dumbledore would not have chosen Neville if he thought the young man not up to the challenge. 

Neville himself had grown up a lot in some ways, and changed not a whit in others. The past few summers he had done higher level research with Professor Sprout in her London laboratory. Ginny knew that he'd published several articles on the various innovative uses of Mandrake and Oleander that had been widely and enthusiastically received by the mediwizard community. From this newfound esteem came self assurance, leading Neville to become more respected and even admired within Hogwarts. It was not often, as Dumbledore remarked last year, that a sixteen year old wizard got his work published in_ The Journal of Magical Remedies._

Despite his successes in Herbology and consequently in medicinal effects, Neville was still abysmally bad at Potions. He still occasionally froze up in conversation. And Snape still scared the living daylights out of him.

Some things, it seemed, never changed.

Ginny was startled out of her reverie by Ron being rude.

"Oi! Ginny! Wake up, you silly lump! Some people need jelly."

She scowled at him and thrust the jelly across the table with a bit more force than necessary. Her brother yowled as bits of jelly sloshed over the sides.

She giggled wickedly.

*

After the feast, the Houses dispersed to their respective dormitories and common rooms. The Gryffindor Commons, by a feat of magic either architectural or otherwise, managed to be both accommodating and cozy at the same time. Firelight from the large fireplace danced around, filling the room with warmth. Comfortably ensconced in a plush red side chair, Ginny and her friend Ella Johnson sipped hot cocoa and watched the familiar scene as Gryffindor became reacquainted with itself. 

Many of the male seventh years were huddled together, listening with increasing hilarity as Ron and Harry regaled them with various antics from their summer holidays at the Burrow. Some fifth and sixth years were lazing about, oozing world-weary resignation to the awe of several third and fourth years. The second years were chattering away, catching up and comparing summers as the first years, as always, moved around the large common room as a single, massed entity.

"I wish we could stay like this," Ella said suddenly, breaking the companionable silence. Ginny immediately knew what she meant. Warm. Comfortable. _Safe. _

But since there was nothing she could say, she simply nodded.

Ginny well remembered the aftermath of the Triwizard Tournament from her third year. Her brothers had been unusually quiet that entire summer, and she often caught her parents talking solemnly of darkness and corruption when they thought she wasn't listening. 

The following year at school, whispers had tiptoed through Hogwarts, fleeing at the first sight of Harry. He had been especially withdrawn the first half of that year, but looking back, Ginny recognized that he had been only too aware of the shadows and doubts that followed him around like death, or something worse. Many students thought Harry had gone mad, and several Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws grew noticeably cocky. 

Publicly, the Ministry had denied all claims that You-Know-Who had risen. Ginny remembered her father storming home; angrily declaring that Fudge's blindness and obstinacy would be the ruin of the wizarding world. 

The first attack came at Christmas.

*

Hermione stuck her head around the staircase. "Ginny! Come help me unpack!"

Ginny left Ella and the warm fire, following Hermione up the winding staircase. Being Head Girl, she got a room to herself. Being Hermione, she hadn't the faintest idea what to do with it.

Now, the two girls set about rearranging furniture and pictures, shoving the heavy bureau to the far corner of the room, putting up various posters and Hermione's huge calendar. 

The older girl sighed, looking regretfully at the blank boxes. "By tomorrow, most of those will be filled."

Ginny grinned unsympathetically. "You know you love all this," she said, motioning to the calendar and the stacks of schoolbooks piled on the desk.

"Mmm," Hermione murmured, absently tucking a stray lock of chestnut hair behind one ear as she surveyed their progress. "Sometimes I think I must be insane, taking all this on. Ah, well. I'd still rather be busy than—" She broke off.

Ginny started silently shaking out the bed linens.

A few minutes later, Ron and Harry came bounding in. At six foot four inches tall, Ron towered over the rest of them and had to bend quite a ways to give Hermione the usual kiss, ignoring the simultaneous groans from Harry and Ginny. 

"Hey, you've really spiffed up the place a bit." He turned, admiring the room. 

"Congratulate Ginny, she put most of it together," Hermione replied. 

Ron looked to his sister. "Now, when I see the magnificent work you've done here, I'm hurt that you won't even consider using your talents on my room."

"That's because it'd have to be _cleaned before I could redecorate it," Ginny said. "And I can't even remember the color of your carpet."_

"Hold up—Ron's room has _carpet?"_ Harry asked dramatically. Then he ducked. The shoe sailed over his head and hit Hermione.

Ron paled.

***

Blaise Zabini was bored. This was probably a bad sign. They were only into the first two weeks of school, and she'd already had enough. Her last year at Hogwarts, and she was spending the entire time planning what she would do as soon as she got out.

She sat in the weekly prefects meeting, idly fussing with a spare piece of paper she'd swiped from Draco. Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom stood at the far end of the table, blathering on about something, their voices echoing importantly off the stone walls. The rest of the seventh year prefects looked as bored as she felt. Blaise snuck a glance at Draco. He slouched elegantly next to her, long legs stretched out under the table, sleeves rolled above his elbows, absently doodling on the roll of parchment Hermione had given them at the beginning of the meeting. 

Blaise had known Draco all her life, and yet he was the only one in all of Sytherin whom she could not read. This fact constantly irked her, but she would have died before admitting it. No one else knew, of course, the effect he had on her. It was a secret she would not dare to confide to anyone at Hogwarts, for fear of dispelling the myth. She and Draco were the yin and yang of Slytherin, the Faerie Queen and her golden consort. It would not do for people to find out that she understood the Prince of Slytherin only as well as the rest of them did. Which is to say, not at all.

She had tried. Merlin knew how she had tried. Sitting with him, laughing with him, making love to him had all been in a vain effort to get past his outer defenses and into the citadel. He was so tightly wound in public, with the other Slytherins, in class, even playing Quidditch, that she _knew there must be untold layers underneath. Why else would he go to such lengths and put on such elaborate masquerades? _

Now he glanced up, caught her staring, and grinned. She looked away, blushing. He poked her side and whispered, "You think we could make a break for it?" His voice sent tiny little shivers up her sides.

_Get a hold of yourself, girl,_ she thought firmly, then glanced at the door located only several yards away. Blaise smiled and shook her head. "Granger and Longbottom probably wouldn't notice, but _he_ would," she indicated Dumbledore, sitting coolly off to the side. 

Draco made a face, then muttered something incredibly rude and also (at least to Blaise' knowledge) anatomically impossible. 

She snorted with laughter, but covered up by coughing. Down at the Gryffindor end, Hermione looked at them suspiciously, but kept talking. Lavender Brown shot Blaise a dirty look, which Blaise dutifully returned. Everyone knew Lavender had been in love with Draco since fifth year, despite the presence of various other boyfriends. 

Blaise' parents would die happy if she and Draco ever got married. Blaise herself wasn't so sure. They had dated on and off for the last two years, and she didn't think she could spend the rest of her life knowing that while, sometimes, she had his full attention, there was still a part of him that he would not, now or ever, share with her. Blaise could just imagine the lifetime of waiting: for him to come to her, for him to share what he was thinking, feeling, desiring. The years of anticipation in return for a few moments of ecstasy.

Blaise knew, without vanity, that she was probably the most beautiful girl at Hogwarts. She could have anyone else in the world, all to herself. So was the life of one boy so much more precious than her own that she would give up her place at the center of her own universe to go sit by him in his?

She didn't know.

***


	2. GoK: Part Two

**The Game of Kings**

**Part Two**

"Come _on,_" Hermione urged. "We're going to be late."

"Her_mi_one," Harry panted in exasperation, lengthening his stride to keep up with her half-trot, "We've more than enough time to get there, considering you've allowed a full fifteen minutes extra time for getting lost—which by the way, we haven't done since second year."

She gave an apologetic giggle. "I'm sorry, I'm just so excited."

" 'Mione, it's not the bloody Olympics, it's just another class."

His friend glared at him over her shoulder. "It is _not just another class. __Dumbledore is teaching it. Don't pretend you're not looking forward to it, 'cause I know you are."_

Apparently, she wasn't the only one. When they arrived, they found the room occupied by several Ravenclaws, quills and parchment already out. 

"See," said Hermione judicially. Harry ignored her.

The room was on the small side, with a circling of desks. A blackboard stood off to the side, unneeded and ignored. There were several large tapestries worth more than Harry's life on the wall, depicting scenes from hunting expeditions of years past. 

Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy strolled in just minutes before class was to start, followed closely by the Headmaster. He smiled amicably at all the students before seating himself on the corner of a desk in between Lisa Turpin and Terry Boot. 

"Welcome to History Seminar," Dumbledore said. "You are the premier seventh year students in your Houses, and as such I expect a level of thought and integrity worthy of you. We shall be looking at a combination of primary historical documents as well as both Muggle and Magical history texts. Class time will be a combination of lecture and discussion. I will also occasionally be assigning you topics or people in history; you will research them on your own time, and then instruct the class yourself on your particular subject. Some of you," he looked around the room, "are already knowledgeable about certain topics, so I expect you to learn from each other as well as me." 

Dumbledore's tone sobered. "This is a very important subject, as I feel it is absolutely necessary to understand how the wizarding and Muggle worlds interact. We _cannot_ pretend, as some choose to do, that the actions of one community do not affect the other. Unfortunately, a year is not enough time to cover all of human history, so we will be getting the condensed version. Should any of you like to pursue a subject more in depth, please feel free to talk to me and we can discuss either setting up an independent study, or if you simply want to read more, I can write up a list of related reading. Any questions?"

For once in her life, Hermione didn't raise her hand.

"Now then. Our first subject will be the ancient Egyptian pharaoh Amenhotep IV, or Akhenaten. Does anyone know why he is significant? Hermione?"

"Akhenaten was the first Egyptian ruler to introduce monotheism, around 1300 BC. He outlawed the traditional worship of Amen, replacing it with the sun-disk Aten," Hogwarts' Head Girl replied promptly. Beside her, Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione _would know something as useless as __that._

"That is correct," Dumbledore beamed. "Very fascinating fellow. He ran the risk of angering the most powerful body in the kingdom—the priests of Amen. Indeed, one of the primary reasons why pharaoh outlawed Amen was because the high priests had begun purging Egypt of its wizarding families. Akhenaten had many friends who were wizards, among them his vizier Ay, and his wife, Nefertiti. She is the main reason we are interested in this period."

"She invented _Avada_ Kedavra_, didn't she?" Draco Malfoy said suddenly. The students all perked up._

Dumbledore glanced quickly at him. "Yes. As a response to the purging of the priests, Nefertiti, who was one of the most powerful witches of all time, developed the Killing Curse, as well as your basic Flame Freezing charm. She felt witches and wizards deserved greater protection from the fanatical Muggles."

"But isn't the Killing Curse a little extreme?" Terry Boot asked.

"We may think so now, but Nefertiti lived in a much more violent time. Murder was not as great a crime."

Hermione glanced around at the class all leaning forward intently. Trust Draco Malfoy to start out the year with murder and mayhem.

*

They were late. As usual. 

Hermione huffed in exasperation, and went looking for her errant friends. Typically, Harry and Ron were seated across from each other in the common room, twin looks of intense concentration (that were never present when doing schoolwork) plastered across their faces. 

They were playing chess, and Ron was, inevitably, winning. Hermione rolled her eyes. She marched over and picked up Ron's white Queen, who shrieked in protest.

"Hey!" Two pairs of affronted masculine eyes looked up at her.

"Hey yourself. Did you two forget something?"

"Actually," Harry said, green eyes lit with amusement behind the familiar glasses, "We didn't. We know we're supposed to study with you."

"We just don't care," Ron finished, grinning. 

Hermione gave a mock pout. "That wasn't very nice."

"I was only joking. Anyway, just let us finish this game and we'll come straight away."

She sighed, and pulled a chair up to the table. The offended Queen gave her a filthy look and turned her back to Hermione. 

Hermione sat back in the chair, only half paying attention to the chess game, her eyes focused on the familiar heads in front of her. Both boys had lapsed back into the state of mind that marked every competition, Quidditch match and chess game they'd ever participated in, rendering them completely oblivious to the outside world.

It was nice, to see them like this, so relaxed and carefree. God knew there had been precious few of these moments in the last two years. Hermione herself had very good cause to believe that Voldemort was indeed back—but not necessarily with a vengeance.

She had seen Harry the night Cedric died, and knew, unlike Fudge and some other higher ranking officials, that her friend was not mistaken. Dumbledore's face that night, if nothing else, assured her of that. But the following months did nothing to sway anyone else. Halfway into fifth year, muggings and attacks designed to look random began occurring. Hermione, Ron and Harry had quickly deduced that every third or fourth attack was against someone known for their steadfast resolve against Voldemort. It was not, Harry bitterly remarked, as though Voldemort would care about the other two thirds of the victims.

But it was enough. Enough for men like Lucius Malfoy to retain their influence with the Ministry. Enough for Fudge to continue to deny Dumbledore's preventative attempts. Enough for the common witch and wizard to become thoroughly confused as to who was responsible amidst all the flying accusations. And with confusion came fear, mistrust, and apathy.

It was, of course, a brilliant scheme. After Harry escaped him yet again, Voldemort disappeared. No one knew where he went, and so the only proof that he had even risen again lay in a boy whom the outside world would no longer trust, thanks to Rita Skeeter. So people believed, because they _wanted_ to believe, that theirs was still the happy, safe world of the last fourteen years. And Voldemort was able to slowly deconstruct the wizarding world from the inside out.

Hermione sighed, eyes bent on the two dark heads in front of her. At least their friendship had survived, however tenuously. Harry had been nearly impossible to get close to during their fifth year, and Ron had been completely unbearable to everyone else because of it. Their one savior had been Quidditch. Harry had never been able to be indifferent where Quidditch was concerned. Ron replaced Oliver Wood as Gryffindor's Keeper, and the two boys were reconciled through their mutual love of the sport and desire to kick everyone else's ass.

She and Ron had consequently grown closer as a result of Harry's self imposed alienation. Hermione smiled as her boyfriend directed his queen across the board. She recognized only too well the tightly controlled look of glee. Any moment now—

Harry moved his knight to take the white queen, and Ron jumped up triumphantly.

"Checkmate!" he crowed.

Harry scowled down at the board.

"Queen's sacrifice," Ron gloated. "Works every time."

On the board, the Queen did a little victory dance.

*

Several evenings later, Hermione persuaded a very reluctant Harry ("But look how _pretty_ it is outside! Don't you want to sit out in the sun?") to accompany her to the library. Harry went because he also had to complete the History Seminar essay and he figured it'd go faster if he could bug Hermione. Ron went because he figured that was the kind of thing boyfriends did.

"Ron! Honestly! Don't you have something better to do?" his loving girlfriend cried in exasperation after Ron crowded her shoulder for the millionth time.

Ron wrinkled his nose. "No. Not really."

"Homework?"

"Finished it."

"Quidditch practice?"

"Captain hasn't said anything about practice," he said, nodding at Harry, who grinned covertly back.

"Well, isn't it time for your nightly check-up on Ginny?" 

Ron shook his head. "I've decided to let Ginny live her life. I figure she's old enough to make smart decisions," he said patronizingly.

"Really?" asked Hermione. "Because I overhead Dean and Seamus arguing over which one got to date her first." Harry chuckled quietly; this was indeed a low blow, and Ginny would kill Hermione the minute she found out.

"What?!"

Two seconds later, Harry and Hermione were alone in the library.

"Desperate times," Hermione said primly in response to Harry's look.

They were reading up on Nefertiti, using volumes that looked as though they hadn't been read since the Crusades. Hermione, of course, was absolutely fascinated with the subject, and said as much.

"You have to admit, 'Mione, that these books are kind of dry," Harry replied, then sneezed. "No pun intended."

Hermione only smiled absently, and kept on reading. 

***


	3. Gok: Part Three

**The Game of Kings**

**Part Three**

It had only been a month since term started, and already Draco felt as though he'd never left. He trudged up the hill, dirty, wet, and tired, but satisfied in a way that only good, hard exercise can give you. Quidditch practice always left him feeling this way. Draco could have attributed this to the little endorphins swimming around his bloodstream if he had only known what endorphins were in the first place. 

Draco had been the Slytherin captain for three years running now, an accomplishment which pleased him to no end (considering that Potter was only named captain in their sixth year). Slytherin had won the Quidditch Cup in Draco's fifth year, and he was determined to repeat the performance. 

He nodded to some Slytherins lolling on the grass, determinedly enjoying their Friday afternoon despite the crisp October wind blowing across the lake. The Giant Squid tentatively wriggled a tentacle out in the air, but quickly retracted it once it felt the cooling breeze.

Snape stood just inside the door of the entry, tall, thin, and forbidding. "Mr. Malfoy. Come with me," he said brusquely, turning before Draco had a chance to say anything. The Head of Slytherin didn't bother to see if Draco followed, just strode down the hallway, black robes billowing out behind him. Draco waved off his teammates looking questioningly at him, and hurried after.

The dungeons were warm and dry, thanks to the many cauldrons simmering by the far wall. Snape seated himself behind his desk. "I have received a letter from your father," he began, "calling you home for a…family emergency."

So. This was it, then. Draco lowered his eyes.

"I just need to owl him back," Snape continued. "However…if you are too busy, with homework, or Quidditch…don't you have a Transfiguration project coming up?" the older man asked, carefully avoiding Draco's eyes.

_He knows,_ Draco thought. _He knows, and he's trying to offer me an out._ But Malfoys didn't need rescuing. He set his jaw and looked up. "Of course I'm going. Owl him immediately," he said haughtily.

Snape looked at him for a long moment. Draco met his gaze squarely, not backing down. Finally Snape nodded. "Very well."

Later, Draco wondered if it was a nod of approval or resignation.

***

"Why are you letting him go?" Snape demanded.

From his chair beside Fawkes, Dumbledore looked chidingly at the other man. "Severus. You say it like I'm sending the boy to his death."

"For all we know, you could be."

"But we_ don't know._ You cannot jump to conclusions on this, my friend."

Snape still looked mutinous, so Dumbledore sighed, and explained, "Young Mr. Malfoy has led a very sheltered life. He needs to experience the real world."

"So because he wasn't an orphan like your precious Potter, he doesn't know anything about suffering?" Snape asked bitterly.

Dumbledore sent him a warning glance. "That is not what I meant. Harry learned early on just exactly what this struggle is about. Draco's life has certainly not been easy, but he has never been exposed to the real ugliness of the matter. If what you fear so desperately is about to happen, Draco will be forced to evaluate exactly where he stands."

"And what if he makes a decision that would be…contrary to our interests, Headmaster?" Snape asked carefully.

Dumbledore smiled gently. "It is not my place to deny him his choice, even if I deem it for his own good. I would still be taking his free will away, and you have said yourself, Severus, how the worst of it was being led without choice. 'Like sheep to a slaughter, blind, deaf, and dumb,' I believe were your very words. We have guided this boy the best we know how for the past seven years. There is nothing else we can do but wait and hope we did right by him."

***

On Saturday, Lucius sent a carriage to Hogsmeade. It was ostentatious, it was elitist and it was entirely like his father. The black two-and-coach with _Malfoy_ emblazoned in purple and gold was a familiar reminder of his childhood, when he'd curl up in the huge bay windows of the library and watch for his parents to arrive home from parties. 

_A family emergency_… Draco snorted. Lucius could have at least come up with a more convincing excuse. He was going home to meet the Dark Lord. 

In terms of common sense, Draco probably should have been more worried. But his father had been preparing him for this meeting for years. He didn't know what to expect with regards to the Dark Lord himself—Lucius wouldn't dare talk candidly about _him_, besides the usual blather about greatness and such, but Draco knew what was expected of him. So he didn't really think about it. 

Instead, he thought about Lucius. The moment he had begun to realize that his father was not infallible was crystallized in his memory, like a Muggle film clip, always set to replay.  It had been the summer between Draco's fourth and fifth year. Lucius always put his son to various tests, "to see how you've been progressing," as he said. In reality, it was more of an assertion of wills, with Lucius always coming out on top, reminding Draco of who he was and where he stood. 

They had always played chess. Lucius was always—stereotypically, in Draco's opinion—black. That summer, they had played, and Draco won. In all of his life, he had never before beaten his father at chess. Draco still remembered the look in Lucius' eyes, disbelief mingled with forced pride and congratulations. There was anger, too, and trepidation, quickly hidden away. They hadn't played since. Lucius never gave a reason and Draco never asked, but he knew it was because his father feared losing again. 

This was not the conquering Renaissance man that Draco knew. The Lucius Malfoy of Draco's childhood was afraid of nothing and no one, least of all his own son. Draco had only seen him bested a handful of times, and all at the doing of Albus Dumbledore, whom the boy-child Draco hated above all else. Dumbledore, who humiliated Lucius, the demigod of Draco's world. Who stood behind trash like the Weasleys and Potter the Prat. Who looked at Draco and saw, it seemed, the young boy's entire soul, and then turned away without comment.

So Draco Malfoy had beaten his father at chess. Then what? Where does a boy of fifteen go after he wakes up and sees color, where before there had only been black and white? The transformation was slow, to be sure. Draco started to notice little things, like the certainty with which Lucius spoke, even though Draco had read opinions to the contrary which had been backed by much better evidence. The way other people looked at them when they were out in public. The sickeningly saccharine deference in other people's voices, hiding the contempt or fear. 

Draco never wanted to be looked at like that—with such lack of genuine respect, such superficiality. It was degrading, especially for someone who was as clever as Lucius and should never have been looked upon with anything less than the utmost respect. But it was even more humiliating that Lucius didn't appear to notice. 

Draco didn't understand. He felt those glances like little pinpricks, needling, irritating, mocking him, leaving behind unsightly red dots on his skin and in his vision. 

But perhaps Draco had simply misread his father's pride; perhaps Lucius noticed, and like Draco, opted to save face and ignore it. For now.

*

The carriage jolted to a stop. Draco craned his neck and looked out of the square window. Malfoy Manor was spread out before him, rising out of the hillside in all its grey stoned glory. There were the gardens where his mother held parties with her fashionable friends, and there was the pond where he'd led crusades against the geese when he was young. Behind the Manor, Malfoy Park stretched out, as dark and mysterious as the Forbidden Forest itself. He was home.

Draco stepped out, stretching the kinks out of his back. Wilfin, elf-steward to Malfoy Manor,  hurried along the paved walkway.

"Master Malfoy! You're back!" he cried, throwing open his little arms. Draco didn't ever actually hug any of his servants, but he nodded in appreciation of the gesture, and instead handed Wilfin his coat. 

Wilfin accepted this as he always had, and said, "Your father awaits you in the solarium."

Draco nodded again, and strode up the walkway. 

He always loved coming home. He might have been facing a whipping once he got inside, and it still wouldn't have lessened the feeling of peace that came over him as he entered. There was something so self satisfying, so affirming, in knowing that one day, all this would be his, to do with as he pleased, to share as he pleased. Draco had long ago planned out what he would do with the estate as soon as he inherited it. It was now but a shadow of the place where the great wizarding families had met in times of trouble or triumph, to discuss war and peace and science and literature. He wanted to rip out every last, ugly security device that his father had installed. He wanted to plant orchards and English gardens. And he had always entertained a secret fantasy of a mill in the pond. Draco planned on restoring Malfoy Manor to the former prestige and beauty that rivaled the estates of great kings of the past.

All this would come, in time. 

The Manor was silent save for Draco's shoes echoing off the tiled floor. As Draco didn't particularly want to start out the weekend on a bad note, he went through the heavily paneled door underneath the grand staircase instead of going the long way around. _"Apparecium solar," he muttered as he opened the door and stepped through into the solarium. _

Lucius waited silently, his back to the doorway, staring out at the Park. "You're late."

"Who died?" Draco asked coolly. "I hope it wasn't anyone I liked." 

Lucius turned. To his surprise, Draco observed worry lines hitherfore unnoticed running their course around his father's eyes, revealing the life-story of a man who chose to cloak himself in secrets. Draco saw his own face, young, fair, and unlined, reflected back in the eyes he had inherited, and wondered, not for the first time, what Lucius saw when he looked at his only son. 

"I wanted to talk about your schooling. I trust that everything is going well?" Lucius inquired. _Translation: You had better be getting top marks._

"Of course. Our first Quidditch game is in two weeks," Draco replied. "Against Hufflepuff, sir." _Translation: We're going to win our first match._

"Excellent," Lucius said, "You have everything you need for this term? Well, then. Dinner will be served at 7:30." _Translation: Now go away, I have more important things to do._

"How's mother?" Draco asked, and watched as Lucius blinked, frowned in concentration, and said, "Oh, she's in the west wing somewhere." Lucius crossed the room and exited.

*

Dinner was served at exactly 7: 31 p.m. (Draco checked) in the Grand Hall. He had always privately thought it somewhat ridiculous for three people to take a meal at a table designed for twenty. But that was just _his_ opinion. The room was designed after the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, that great feat of wizarding architecture by Louis the Sun King of France. Draco privately suspected that many of the old wizarding families of both France and England had never really forgiven old Louie's grandson, the hapless Louis XVI, for getting himself guillotined and turning the country over to Muggle rule. Versailles had never been the same since.

Lucius was talking. "…And how has Longbottom been managing? I imagine he's been owling that old mule of a grandmother for advice."

"Why owl her when Granger's right there?" Draco said, and Lucius smiled, eyes flashing.

"Ah yes. How could I have forgotten her? An idiot and a Mudblood—"

Draco tuned out. However, he snapped back to reality when Wilfin entered, bearing a white note card on a silver platter. 

"Milord, you have visitors," he said, bowing low. 

Lucius picked up the calling card and dismissed Wilfin with one hand. "Hmm. Send them to my study. Draco, come with me." He stood, and the rest of the family got up hastily as well. "Narcissa, have brandy brought up," he ordered, then strode out of the room. Draco followed. 

Lucius' study was done in traditional burgundy leather and crushed velvet. As a small boy, Draco would sneak in, perching himself on one of the high backed chairs, and watch the various Sneak-scopes and gyroscopes ornamenting his father's desk flash and whirl silver. 

Now, he sat off to the side as his father discussed the weather with two men he had never seen before. After the first, tense, appraising look at him, the older men had apparently dismissed him in favor of the cloud cover over Edinburgh, but not before Draco had seen reluctant admiration in their eyes, followed by his father's smug approval, carefully masked.

Finally, the older and more pompous of the two said huffily: "What's this about the vampires refusing to concede?"

"It's only a delay," Lucius replied smoothly. "They simply cannot recognize that ours is the greater power. In time, they will join us."

"I don't see what their problem is," said the shorter one, who sported a fine baby yellow down of hair and a fairness of complexion that made Draco think twice about whether or not castration had really gone out of practice. "It's not as though the vampires would be _losing status, rather the opposite, really." _

"The sooner they get off their horses and recognize our Lord's dominance, the sooner they can benefit from all he has to offer," added the older man, who reminded Draco of his prissy riding instructor.

_Right,_ thought Draco, _they only have to concede about a millennium and a half of self rule to someone who's barely been around for half a century_.

 Across the room, Lucius met his eyes. Draco remained silent.

"Anyway," continued the blonde Duck-Boy, "We really should consider some sort of rejoinder to Macnair's proposal."

"What proposal?" said Prissy Face.

"Macnair thinks our Lord should create an object that holds his power. He thinks that having such an object would make it easier for Him to channel his energy."

"What sort of object? Like a ring? That's awfully risky; what if it gets lost, or stolen?" asked the Priss, who obviously wasn't familiar with his fantasy classics. "If the secret ever got out, we'd have all sorts of people trying to get at it."

Draco, who did read, choked on his brandy.

"Still. Macnair's influence with our Lord has grown. It would not do for us to ignore him completely, no matter how asinine we think him to be," said Lucius.

"But, come, Malfoy—surely the Dark Lord doesn't give the idea any merit? Why on earth would anyone want to create a—oh, what's the phrase I'm looking for?"

"A Ring of Power?" Draco put in mildly.

"Exactly," said Duck-Boy, who also apparently didn't read for pleasure. Lucius glared at his son.

 ***


	4. GoK: Part Four

**The Game of Kings**

**Part Four**

Draco sprawled on his bed, lazily perusing the latest issue of _Playwizard__. A large black and white cat sat next to him, washing her face. Behind him, the cobalt blue drapes rose up to meet the dark cherry wood of his four poster bed. Several stuffed chairs were arranged around the marble fireplace, opposite the huge antique desk._

 The rest of the conversation in the study had centered mainly on Fudge and what a pitiful sap he was. Lucius had seemed rather uneasy about the discussion of Macnair, causing Draco to wonder just how in control of the situation his father was. 

There was a knock on the door, and Wilfin popped his head in after Draco's muted, "Come in."

"Your father expects you in the Rose Garden in twenty minutes. He said you should dress warmly."

Draco nodded in acknowledgement and dismissal, then crossed to his wardrobe. What, exactly, does one wear when meeting the Dark Lord for the first time? Does one go dressy in the hopes of impressing, or should one wear practical clothes to convey one's sensibility and level-headedness? His Slytherin robes might be appropriate, but Draco had no idea where he was going and didn't much fancy getting them messy—the house elves would sulk and put sour milk in his cereal for the rest of the weekend. Finally, he just shrugged on a heavy grey sweater and leather boots, figuring that at the end of the day, Lord Voldemort had more pressing issues than Draco Malfoy's attire.

The gardens were chilly at eight o'clock at night. Draco made his way through the familiar, twisting paths, instinctively going to the horse and rider statue at the northeastern corner of the gardens. His father was waiting silently at the foot of the statue, a phantom in the dusky grey of twilight.

From the depths of his cloak Lucius brought out a sword, holding the blade lightly between his fingertips. It was old; a Malfoy heirloom, and a not-so-subtle reminder of family prestige, causing Draco to wonder again at his father's standing with the rest of the Death Eaters.

"Are you ready?" Lucius asked, glancing at a pocket watch held in his other hand. Draco nodded, gripped the hilt in his left hand, and the world began to howl and swirl.

Traveling by Portkey was a rather irritating procedure. Draco abruptly remembered his dislike of this particular method of transportation when his knees slammed forcefully into the ground. Somewhere behind him, Lucius chuckled.

Draco staggered to his feet and looked around, trying (and failing) to maintain some semblance of composure. They had landed in a clearing at the base of a hill. Above them rose a castle that seemed straight out of one of the more garish gothic romance novels that some of the Slytherin girls read (not that Draco had skimmed through them or anything). Lucius started up the hill.

"We can't Portkey or Apparate directly into the castle: it's warded," he explained over his shoulder. Draco glanced around as they walked, knowing full well that he'd never be able to find the place again. Overhead, the rising harvest moon cast an otherworldly yellowish pallor, cold and alien, on the forest. There were no clouds. It was a night for dreams, where the fantastic and the surreal conspire together. When compared to the crystalline quality of what came next, to Draco the forest walk would forever be ingrained in his memory as the most abstract of hallucinations.

He followed Lucius up a winding spiral staircase at the back of the castle. The interior was lit at intermediate intervals by sconces set into the walls. Lucius paused at a heavy iron door and muttered three words in quick succession. The door slid open noiselessly on well oiled hinges.

The first thing Draco noticed was the ceiling, enchanted to show the outside sky. Unlike the Great Hall at Hogwarts, Draco suspected this was more for strategic rather than decorative purposes. The room was empty save for some chairs, a table with glasses and a decanter, and a bare throne raised on a dais. A fire, weak and spitting, burned spitefully in the hearth. Several threadbare tapestries hung on the walls, defiant in their faded brilliance.

Draco had always imagined his first meeting with the Dark Lord to take place in the dead of night in a forest, amidst a circling of Death Eaters chanting and bowing. Lord Voldemort would have appeared before him in a blaze of smoke and fire, awesome and terrible in the flickering firelight. 

But as with so many of our most secret fantasies, the reality is nothing like our dreams. Lucius walked over to another door and opened it, spoke some words Draco didn't catch, and sat down, motioning for his son to remain standing. After a short pause, Lord Voldemort emerged from the second door, and stood regarding the younger Malfoy coolly. He was flanked by Duck-Boy and another man whom Draco did not recognize.

This Voldemort was everything and nothing like what Draco had imagined. He was abnormally tall and his features seemed taut, as if someone had taken a very raw and primitive mold for a human body and had simply stretched skin over it. The skin itself was a waxy grey that gleamed in the firelight. He had no hair, and his scalp was lit from within as though his very brain glowed. Instead of the fiery energy that Draco had imagined, an eerie sense of serenity enveloped him; he floated, implacable, in a sea of alien self possession.  

But it was the Dark Lord's eyes that drew the attention: twin pits of bottomless, fathomless red charcoals that pulsed with inner fuel. They promised knowledge, and wisdom, and enlightenment, and all of your hopes and deepest desires. There was also cruelty, and gleeful malice, and unspeakable retribution for wrongs that had happened and wrongs that were yet to come. Standing before this all-encompassing gaze, Draco was stripped down to his barest core and rebuilt again. He felt oddly drained.

"Young Master Malfoy, come before me at last," Lord Voldemort said, watching Draco carefully. "Tell me: is it everything you thought it would be? Am I?" The casual, amused tone jarred any remaining complacency from Draco. He opened his mouth, prepared to spew assurances, and then abruptly realized that the question was rhetorical. Lord Voldemort moved over to the throne and seated himself upon it, summoning a glass and the decanter. After leisurely pouring himself some brandy, he motioned for Draco and the other men to sit down.

"Shall we get down to business?" he inquired, before turning his attention to Duck-Boy. "Allistar, I understand that you've been having…difficulties with our erstwhile vampire friends?"

Duck-Boy—Allistar nodded. "Indeed, milord. We have offered them legitimacy, but their so-called High Council refuses to give up its sovereignty and recognize you as their master."

"So they refused my kind offer?"

"No, milord. They are still open to an alliance, but they would not call you master."

_Figures,_ Draco thought. 

"You're giving them more than they'll ever receive from the Ministry," Duck-Boy continued, "I don't understand it."

"You wouldn't," Lord Voldemort said shortly, then asked, "How is Kalv in Norway? Is he keeping the trolls under tight rein? Good. It wouldn't do for them to act preemptively. And the Ministry? Still dragging their heels over France's Werewolf Reconciliation Act?"

"Yes, Lord. Fudge is bowing to my pressure, as you predicted. Publicly, he refuses to consort with any of their kind; he says the wizarding world is better off alone," Lucius said.

The Dark Lord smiled. "Little does he know. Keep his hands tied. And_ keep him isolated._ I don't want Dumbledore or anyone else interfering with Fudge."

"Indeed, Lord, if that effeminate Crouch did anything useful at all, it was alienating Fudge from Dumbledore," the strange man spoke up for the first time. Draco, seated across from Lord Voldemort, had an instant's warning that the other man lacked, and braced himself. The Dark Lord rounded on his Death Eater like a wraith. "Impertinent fool!" he hissed, his eyes sparking. "Barty Crouch did more for me in twelve months than you have in as many years. You will show him respect…_Crucio__!"_

The man gasped, his eyes rolling up into his head. Draco tactfully looked away, and observed his father watching the punishment with carefully masked enjoyment. _Yet another one fallen, right father?__ How many to go before you're the only one left?_

About thirty seconds later, Lord Voldemort released him, wheezing, and resumed speaking as though nothing had happened. "And how is my friend Macnair? Is he still so eager about that idea of his? Ah, Lucius, I see you do not approve. Never fear; I don't intend to actually follow through with it."

Draco covertly watched his father relax in his chair ever so slightly. Then Lord Voldemort said, "However, the man is rather creative. Allistar, I would like to consult with him further." Lucius stiffed, and Lord Voldemort swung around abruptly towards Draco. "Are you learning much, boy?"

Caught staring, Draco could only nod. "You see, your father does not like Macnair," the Dark Lord continued. "He worries about his influence with me. As well he should. I reward loyalty, but I will not tolerate complacency. You should not confuse the two. I hope you are ready for the road ahead of you, young Master Malfoy. I will not lie to you: it is no easy path, this game of kings, of diplomats and ambassadors and politicians, of dreamers and schemers and thinkers. But the rewards," Lord Voldemort smiled grotesquely, "are beyond your imagining."

***

While Draco Malfoy met for the first time his father's master in an ancient castle in Wales, the board began to reform and the game began in earnest.

Under cover of the dark forests of Romania, the Vampire Council met and looked consideringly to the west, before calling its most powerful Caesars back to the motherly vampiric bosom.

The Ukrainian government, also looking west, thoughtfully measured their most recent news against what they knew of Fudge and the British Ministry, and then settled down for the long haul, smiling toothily like a Russian wolfhound.

Dumbledore, the greatest wizard of his time, could not live forever. Arthur Weasley and his closest friends downed several extra shots of whiskey at the thought, damning their minister for a fool. Rather than drown their sorrows in alcohol (although the thought was tempting), several other more observant officials in Norway continued to track the movement of the trolls, their blond brows furrowed.

Harry Potter, The Boy Who Continued To Live, would be reaching his majority next summer. It was unlikely, thought a number of the more pessimistic wizarding families, that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and _who had failed to kill the boy four times by now_ would allow him to see age 18 without at least one last attempt. As Harry Potter was presently at school with no intention of leaving, Hogwarts and consequently Hogsmeade lost some of their more skittish goblin investors.

Had anyone been paying attention, it might have been noticed that the Dementors in Azkaban were spending more time in their own company. However, on the bright side (depending on how you looked at it), the other occupants of Azkaban regained a little more color in their cheeks.

As far away as Greece, the brown-skinned Island faeries were seen above water for the first time in centuries. Their distant cousins, the woodland faeries of France and Germany, slowly came down from the trees they dwelt in.

Throughout the great forests of Europe and the jungles of Asia, centaurs were finding themselves torn from inspection of the celestial and into discussion of the secular. There was, for a time, a great deal of peevishness among the centaurs.

The magical world, laid dormant and content in its ways for so long, was stirring. What it should bring for the future, not even the most skillful of seers could foretell.


	5. Queen's Play: Part One

**Chapter Two: Queen's Play**

**Part One**

_Don't build up another false image. I may be the piqueresque sufferer now, but when I have the whip-hold, I shall behave quite as crudely, or worse. I have no petty faults. Only, sometimes, a purpose._

To her credit, Hermione waited until the prefect's meeting was over before pouncing on Draco Malfoy. 

"Malfoy. A moment, if you please," she said coolly as the council started filing out, and was rewarded by the look of irritation that passed over his face. He leaned back in his chair and raised one of his eyebrows insolently.

Because it had been a long weekend, and because she couldn't raise just one eyebrow, Hermione felt a surge of answering annoyance wash over her, and responded accordingly.

"There was a meeting of the senior prefects on Sunday, which you failed to appear at," she said in her most authoritative voice, which always caused Ron to screw up his face in annoyance. Now, it seemed perfect for the circumstances. "I understand, of course, that it was short notice, but I wasn't aware of any _relevant _conflicts. Naturally, I can't speak for Slytherin events."

"It is a bit…inconvenient for you to schedule a meeting at eight in the morning on a Sunday," he said, avoiding her implied question. "But, then again, it's not as though Gryffindors would need to sleep in. You all were probably in bed by nine."

"Whereas you lot were—"

"Skinning baby calves in the moonlight and drinking their blood? Partaking in wild drunken orgies and paying homage to Bacchus?"

Caught, she flushed. "That wasn't what I was going to say."

"Good." There was a little malicious light in his eyes. "Think how it would reflect on Hogwarts if its Head Girl couldn't come up with original and creative insults."

With considerable effort, Hermione controlled her temper and asked again, "So do you have an excuse?"

"For what? Oh, your precious prefects meeting. I was at home," he said simply.

Ignoring for the moment her curiosity, Hermione replied, "That's too bad. We were discussing the Halloween Ball. Since you weren't here, I volunteered you for something."

"What?" Malfoy asked, and she gleefully delivered the coup d' grace. 

"You're to decorate the Great Hall. Since it's a dance, you'll need to go into Hogsmeade for supplies. Oh, and you'll be working with Lavender Brown and Ginny Weasley." With that, Hermione turned on her heel and swept regally out of the room.

To her disappointment, there was no explosion, just a hard hand on her arm, swinging her around, and a pair of furious grey eyes.

"_Hell no_, Granger. I don't even plan on going, and I certainly don't want to work with two silly little Gryffindor girls who'll doubtlessly spend the time arguing over the proper shade of pink. I'm not your bloody interior decorator—isn't that sort of thing more up _Thomas'_ alley?"

Hermione ignored the insinuation of his last words and said firmly, "I don't care if you don't want to do it. The committee has decided, and you will help, Malfoy. Being a prefect comes with certain responsibilities—"

Cutting her off mid sentence, he said, "How very Gryffindor of you to blather on about responsibilities, when you haven't the slightest meaning of its implications. And anyway," he continued before she could ask him what the devil he was talking about, "I haven't the time. I'm taking just as many classes as you are, and I've got Quidditch, and I'm the senior Slytherin prefect—"

"Exactly," said Hermione triumphantly. "And like _I said, being prefect comes with—"_

"Responsibilities, I bloody well _get that, Granger, but I'm saying that I will not—"_

"Yes, you will!"

"You incompetent little—"

"_Incompetent?!__ Why you—"_

Totally engrossed in the shouting match, Hermione didn't notice Professor Binns until he was right behind Malfoy. The little professor glided up and put a ghostly hand around the vicinity of Malfoy's shoulder. Several things then proceeded to happen all at once. 

Hermione blanched and said urgently, "Malfoy: _shut up." Malfoy, the stupid git, snarled at her, eyes blazing. He then became aware of the touch on his shoulder. His eyes glazed over, and he whirled around, shouting a word Hermione didn't recognize. There was a sudden rush of wind, which knocked Hermione to her knees. She dimly saw Malfoy collapse, and without thinking, crawled to his side. The wind died, and Malfoy groaned. _

"Thor's bones: I'm going to be sick."

Hermione didn't reply. She was staring, aghast, across the hallway. There, sitting on the floor in a tangled heap of robes, was Professor Binns, looking very surprised and very, very much alive.

***

Some distance away, a man stopped in mid-stride. The ripple itself was faint, and had once been a fairly common occurrence. But the man had not felt such a wave in some time, and immediately closed his eyes in concentration, attempting to pinpoint the source.

After a bit, he opened his eyes and began walking. The sands of Death swirled gently around his feet, but he was no stranger to this land, and the necessary force of will required to walk here had long ago become second nature. It was, as usual, bleakly hot. The land here was mostly flat, and would make for easy travel save for the occasional lake he would have to skirt. The white sand stretched forever on, raising only into dunes where the topography in Life allowed. The man plodded on, paying no more attention than was necessary to his surroundings. 

After a while, it occurred to him that he should find out just who and what it was he would be dealing with. So the man stopped, and mentally reached out for the barrier between Life and Death. He felt around carefully, walking this way and that, until he was reasonably certain that no humans were within several yards of him. Then he slide on the cool, silvery cloak, forced his will, and stepped through.

He emerged, blinking, into a barn. After slipping off the Invisibility Cloak, he stuffed it into his battered rucksack. Several cows regarded his sudden appearance in the middle of their barn with mild astonishment before returning thoughtfully to their cud. Nearby, a hen squawked in alarm and began backpedaling suspiciously. The man left the barn as quietly as he had appeared.

Night had full possession of the Earth outside, and he had to spend several more seconds winking away the brightness of Death. Then he walked towards the Muggle farmhouse, fishing around in his pockets for his wand as he went. He unlocked the front door quickly, and found the living room with little difficulty. After muttering a Silencing charm, he built up the fire, drew out a tiny bottle from inside his vest, and threw a pinch of powder into the flames. He spoke quietly into the fireplace.

"Ah, Nicholas, my old friend. Would you mind doing a favor for me?"

***

Several hours later, Albus Dumbledore sat patiently in his large, cluttered office, waiting for a certain Slytherin seventh year. Beside him, Fawkes cooed quietly in his sleep, and Albus smiled abstractedly at his familiar. The door slid soundlessly open, and Draco Malfoy stepped in, rigid with nervousness and distrust and fear, carefully concealed. Dumbledore studied the boy for a few seconds, and after Draco shifted uncomfortably, smiled benignly at him and motioned to the chair opposite his desk. 

"Ah. Mr. Malfoy, how are you today?"

Draco stared at him for several seconds before muttering, "Fine, sir."

"Wonderful," Dumbledore beamed. "School's going well, I take it? Excellent. How do you find History Seminar? Ah, I'm glad. We've had a lovely term so far, don't you think? The weather's been fantastic, and I won a bet with Minerva about the last Quidditch match. By the way, is Slytherin getting in enough practice time? I know the weekends can be a bit hectic."

Dumbledore watched as Draco's eye's unglazed and comprehension flooded quickly across his face. Then the boy's face slammed shut, as tight and inaccessible as a Gringott's vault.

"I thought you would like to know that Professor Binns will be perfectly alright," Dumbledore said gently, and pretended not to notice the lessening of tension in Draco's shoulders. "While the situation is a bit…unusual, there has been precedence. Naturally, you'll have to search a bit to find some sources, but I understand that Miss Granger was present. Perhaps she'll help you look in the library. I think that girl is even more familiar with the layout than Madame Pince…"Dumbledore noticed the incomprehension in Draco's face. 

"Oh. Forgive me, I've not properly explained. The problem is, Draco, that there are very few people alive today who understand the subject, and even then they're not willing to speak up about it. Necromancy used to be one of the most celebrated arts in the world, but within the last several centuries it has…gone out of practice somewhat. Indeed, I do not believe that there has been a reported resurrection since Voldemort rose to power."

Draco started slightly at that, but Dumbledore continued on complacently, "In fact, the majority of the wizarding world is content to believe that the art has disappeared entirely. At any rate, it is never publicly discussed, and I believe I would be causing the Minister several aneurisms if he knew I had brought this up, in front of a student no less. Raising the dead is always so controversial, you see. I myself have only seen the art practiced once, a long time ago, and a very interesting experience it was, too." 

Draco looked slightly glazed. The clock on the wall chimed gently, and they both glanced over to see the single hand move to _Staff Meeting. _

"Oh, dear," Dumbledore said, "Running late as always. Minerva will be so put out. Now Draco, I would recommend that you be discrete about what happened here today. I am not yet sure how the Ministry and…others would react to this knowledge. I will do my best to find you some more information; in the meantime, do try and control your temper, even when you're provoked." 

Draco nodded stiffly and left. 

Dumbledore sighed. There wasn't much _he could say to convince the boy, and it was dangerous to discuss the subject with Draco, especially for him, but perhaps…Dumbledore remained at his desk for several minutes. Then he got up decisively, walked over to the fireplace, and threw a pinch of powder from a small jar into the fire. "Nicolas Flamel," he said firmly._

***

Hermione was waiting for him, a stack of books clutched firmly in her hands. Malfoy rounded the corner and she opened her mouth to speak, and fell silent. If she hadn't been standing in the middle of the hallway, she doubted that he would have seen her at all.

"What?" he asked without preamble.

"Professor Binns is alright," she said.

"I know," Malfoy said shortly, and moved to go by her.

Hermione stared at him.

_"What?!"_

"There's no need to shout," she said primly, and then saw his face and cursed herself.

"More books, Granger?" he snarled. "I'm sure this just delights you: now you have even more reason to spend time in the library. You'd better be careful though, because I bet your boyfriend's going to get bored after a while, and start to stray. You know what they say about _redheads."_

"No, I don't, actually," Hermione said levelly. "But I _have learned how to deal with raging male tempers. What did Dumbledore say?"_

He blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"I know what I saw, Malfoy. You preformed complex magic, of a sort that I've never even read about before."

"Don't you mean _Dark magic_?" he asked bitingly.

"No. That wasn't like any Dark magic I've ever heard of. Binns is _alive._ That's necromancy," Hermione said.

"Knew you got to be Head Girl for some reason, and not just what the name implies," he jeered.

She ignored this. "Necromancy doesn't just randomly occur to people, Malfoy. What did Dumbledore say?"

Malfoy's mouth twisted. "Oh, the usual, you know. We talked about the weather, and how I'm going to wipe the pitch with your boyfriend come the next Quidditch match. Why the bloody hell do you care, Granger?"

Hermione was taken aback. She had been so preoccupied with trying to figure out what had happened to Binns and why that she forgot who she was dealing with. Of course Malfoy wouldn't believe that she was genuinely fascinated with what had happened from a purely academic viewpoint. Instead he immediately suspected her of false intentions. Which was not only unfair, but irritating, given the circumstances.   "Well, because—"

"No, wait. Let me guess. You went rushing off to the library, memorized everything you could get your hands on, and have now come back to gloat about what a freak I am. I bet Potter and Weasley were rolling in the aisles when they heard. Draco Malfoy, the necrophiliac!" 

Hermione looked up at Malfoy. "I was only trying to help." She dropped the stack of books at his feet.

"Why?" he asked, his face unreadable.

"Because you looked like you needed it," she replied quietly.

"You were wrong," he said coldly.

She took in his white face, clenched hands, and tense posture. He noticed her gaze and immediately assumed a haughty expression. 

"I guess I was," she said quietly, and walked past him.

***

"You did _what?!"_

Snape stood in the center of Dumbledore's office, every inch of his black-robed body radiating disapproval.

As always, Hogwart's headmaster was the absolute picture of serenity. "I invited him to come here. If what we suspect is true, young Mr. Malfoy will need some sort of instructing. We cannot teach him what we do not know, and I would rather not take chances with necromancy."

"But you can't be positive that he is—"

"If you have doubts, Severus, then perhaps you should visit Binns in the infirmary," Dumbledore said, a bit more sharply than he intended. "I don't think it was the crisp fall air that resurrected him."

Snape ran his hands distractedly through dank black hair. "Do you trust this man?"

"I have only talked to him once. But Nicolas says he was once the most renowned necromancer of the time, and I trust _him."_

Seeing the tension along the younger man's shoulders, Dumbledore's eyes softened. "I am not trying to be domineering. And I am even more worried than you know. This turn of events is unexpected, to say the least, and I don't quite know how—or if at all—they fit into _his plans."_

"Draco didn't know," Snape said determinedly.

"Oh, I don't think anyone is more bewildered than him right now," agreed Dumbledore. "Which may or may not be to our advantage."

"You can't be meaning to _use_ this boy, Dumbledore," Snape narrowed his eyes.

"As I said to you earlier, I will not force him. But I can try to ensure that his father and Voldemort don't either."

Snape wasn't at all sure what the old man meant by that.

*


	6. QP: Part Two

**AN:** Just a note—I have added **new** sections to the previous two chapters. As they are sort of important to the plot, I would humbly suggest going back and reading them. Thanks to those who have continued to follow this story, despite my suckiness at updating. Your reviews help me make this a better story. As usual, the final, beta'd version of this chapter will be posted with the last installment.

**Queen's Play: Part Two**

He strode down the hall, his eyes straight ahead, mind elsewhere. _Don't let him write home,_ Dumbledore had ordered. _At least not until this man can speak to him._

Snape snorted irritably. Getting Draco to do anything he didn't want to was a challenge on a good day, and while the boy certainly respected and admired him, Snape was not and never would be Lucius Malfoy.

At the present moment, the towering shadow of Draco's father might prove beneficial. Dumbledore's insinuation—however true—that necromancy was a shunned art in _all_ circles would only compound Draco's confusion over what he had done. In the meantime, Snape could only hope to offer the boy some reassurances that would sooth his state of mind and yet keep him from running off to Daddy advertising his new skills.

It was only until he was nearing his own chambers that Snape realized how upset he actually was. He slowed to a stop, thinking carefully. They would try and keep what had happened quiet for as long as possible, but at any school such as Hogwarts, news spread even faster than the latest Weasley invention. It was bound to get out somehow, and the revelation that a ghost long dead had been resurrected would be huge news, met with trepidation and fear. Potter could have handled it, but then again, Potter was used to being thought of as a freak. For a boy like Draco, indulged, raised in privacy and privilege, the sudden attention would come as a shock.

He couldn't guess what the information would mean to Voldemort, either. Necromancy was an old sort of power, long forgotten, and Voldemort loved power, in all forms, no matter the cost. But he guarded it selfishly; so then, what would he make of this? Snape didn't know much at all about necromancy, but if _Dumbledore_ had to call in an expert, then he was betting that it was, at the very least, complex magic that wasn't easily learned. And what Voldemort couldn't take for himself, he destroyed…

Snape turned around, and began walking towards the Slytherin common room.

*

Draco wasn't there. Snape briefly considered asking another Slytherin where he was, but figured that the Hogwarts gossip chain didn't need more fuel. His rough Locating spell placed the boy down by the lake.

He was sitting in a rumpled heap, staring moodily out across the water. Draco seldom allowed himself to appear anything but perfectly groomed; even when he flew he was able to maintain a sort of serpentine grace. Of course, the only occasions where he had ever been caught not completely put together usually (and unfortunately) involved Harry bloody Potter.

He was certainly a mess now, robes tangled, the blond Malfoy hair in disarray. His broomstick lay sleek and quiet in the grass beside him. Draco didn't move as Snape strode up behind him. Had he been a Gryffindor, and thus an entirely different person, Snape would have perhaps crouched by the boy's side, or maybe put a comforting hand on his shoulder. As it was, he did neither, and simply stood, arms clasped behind, back ramrod straight, and addressed Draco crisply.

"Mr. Malfoy. If you are feeling unwell, perhaps you should see Madame Pomfrey."

As he had intended, the cool tone succeeded in rousing Draco. The boy's eyes cleared and Snape watched his brain snap back into gear and start working again.

"Sir," Draco's chin came up, "I'm sorry. I should have come to you immediately." 

Snape accepted the apology with a nod and moved on. "I have spoken with the Headmaster—" and here some tiny, selfish, irrational part of him was satisfied by the gleam of distrust in Draco's eyes at the mention of Dumbledore—"and he has deemed it best to send for an… outside consultant."

"I don't want that," Draco said immediately.

 "Draco—what you did today, however unintentionally, was necromancy. We need someone who can explain to you and to us what, precisely, happened, and why."

"And you think this—person—can do this?" Draco asked, brows tilted stubbornly.

"He is a necromancer," Snape said flatly, and saw Draco deflate a bit. "One of only a few left who are still practitioners."

_"Left?_ What happened to them all?"

Snape shrugged. "Evolution," he replied, only half joking.

Draco didn't appear to have heard him. "What—what do you think my father will say when he finds out?" he asked, and Snape was reminded of the small boy who had first arrived at Hogwarts seven years ago.

"I don't know," he said cautiously. "It is…an unusual skill to have, if indeed this was not some sort of fluke. I take it that you've not heard about anything like this in your family history before?"

Draco shook his head. Then, worrying slightly on his bottom lip, he asked, "And…Lord Voldemort?" It was barely a whisper.

"I don't know," Snape replied after the barest of pauses. It was the first time he had ever flat-out lied to one of his students.

***

The necromancer arrived the following Tuesday. How he got to Hogwarts, Snape never found out. But there he was, conversing intently with Dumbledore when Snape walked into the Headmaster's office, trailed sullenly by Draco.

He looked only several years older than Snape, which surprised him greatly. Brown hair shot with grey framed a weathered face, and the dark eyes that swung around were guarded. He was also tall, and Snape found himself looking up for the first time in many years. That alone was enough to irritate him, and he felt even more piqued than before.

"Thank you for joining us," Dumbledore smiled widely. "Allow me to introduce you. Severus Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House, and Draco Malfoy, the boy I was just telling you about."

The man nodded at both of them and held out his hand first to Draco. "I am very intrigued by what I have heard, Draco. You may call me Sethos."

"How…appropriate," Snape murmured, _sotto voce._

The man—Sethos—directed a knowing smile at him. "I certainly think so," he said, holding his hand out to Snape in turn. Snape took it, adding a little more pressure than necessary. Sethos met it with equal measure and both men stepped back, reassessing each other. 

"Do you think, Headmaster," said Sethos, turning back to Dumbledore, "that I could have a word or two with Mr. Malfoy? In private?"

"Of course," Dumbledore replied, after glancing at Draco. "I believe the Charms classroom is empty at this time. Draco, if you could show him the way…?"

Draco nodded, and left as silently as he had came. Snape turned to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster forestalled him. Holding up one hand, he said, "Whatever objections you have must wait. He is all we have got right now."

"I don't like him."

"I never dreamed you would," Dumbledore replied, and Snape was sure the Headmaster was laughing at him.

***

The charms classroom was indeed empty. Draco Malfoy stood in the middle of the room, at a loss. Sethos entered behind him, quietly shutting the door.   
"You know who I am, but not what I am," he said, coming in and sitting on a desk.  
"You're a necromancer," the boy said evenly.  
Sethos smiled wanly. "Yes. But do you know what that means?" And before Draco could reply he went on, "I raise the dead. Once raised, they will obey me. I speak to them, and learn their secrets. I can enter freely into Death, and all those I meet on the other side will let me pass unmolested. I can, if I wish, hasten the passing of one, and delay the entrance of another. Do you know why the Ministry has banned necromancy? Do you know why so many necromancers died during the war all those years ago? And do you know why one more was unjustly sent to Azkaban in the years that followed?"  
Draco shook his head.

"Necromancy cannot be taught. It cannot be learned. It is a talent inborn in a select few, for reasons that have everything and nothing to do with who they are, and for reasons we have yet to fathom. There are two questions that you probably want to ask me. The first answer is _yes, and I could tell the minute I shook your hand. However, I can't tell you why you were born a necromancer. For that, I am sorry. I can only hope to provide you with answers to the other questions that come up along the way."_

Draco was silent for a moment, and Sethos let him think. Finally, he asked, "What do you want from me?"

For such a simple question, the implications were loaded. Sethos paused for a moment, and saw Draco mark his hesitation. The boy was quick, that much was certain. And suspicious.

"If you'll remember what it was like to find your first wand—you probably had to test out several before you found the proper wand?" Draco nodded.

"Remember how those other wands felt—powerful, but misguided and hard to control? That's what it is like to perform necromancy for the first time." Sethos paused again. "I'm sorry, I didn't answer your question. All I want is to pass on what I know.

"There hasn't been an Awakening in years. There are not many of us left. Most necromancers find their talent out by accident. Usually, it takes place in adolescence, during a time of change, or stress. Usually, the person ends up accidentally raising soothing small and newly dead. That you resurrected a ghost is a testament to your potential strength." Sethos smiled amiably. "Myself, I just hauled out my uncle's dearly departed sow from the ground." Draco allowed himself a hint of a smile in return, and Sethos pushed onwards.

"Being a necromancer will not save you from your own death. Some of us have fallen to the natural perils of the job. Many of us were persecuted in the great wars of this century. Necromancy is not what it used to be. We have grown misunderstood…"

Here, Sethos decided to take a chance, knowing that the young man in front of him would at least recognize it, if not appreciate it. "Both sides, Light and Dark, have feared the supposed influence that necromancers have over Life. So that is why the Ministry has banned us. From the Allied and Central powers, to both the Allies, Hitler and Grindewald, to the Ministry and Voldemort: they have all contrived to end the practice of necromancy."

His voice died away. Sethos sat, his eyes never leaving those of Gabriel Malfoy's great grandson. After what seemed like an eternity, Draco spoke. "You sound as though you expect me to make a choice."

His laugh was short and filled with pity. "No, Draco. I meant that you no longer have one."

***

Sequestered in one of the private nooks in the library, Hermione stared at the ancient book in front of her. **_A Treatise on Death_, byNostradamus. The usually helpful library information card had simply read: _on necromancy. Published 1550.The books she had dropped in front of Malfoy contained only oblique and passing references to necromancy; this one was the only tome in the whole library devoted entirely to the subject. She brushed aside a passing guilt on her less than legal methods of obtaining it, and gently cracked open the cover. The preface was brief, and to the point._**

_Written in 1550 by the famed astrologer and physician Nostradamus, the **Treatise was at the time widely considered to be one of the authoritative texts on the so-called "art" of necromancy in the wizarding world. It is generally regarded today as a curious sort of closure to the events of 1538, when Nostradamus was persecuted by agents of the Spanish Reconquista for supposedly engaging in necromancy during the height of the Black Plague. Nostradamus himself claimed not to be a practitioner, however, he did mention witnessing several acts of "death raising" in his diaries. It is believed that he spent a considerable amount of time during the periods of 1538 to 1545, when he was exiled from **__France__, researching his treatise. The papers detailing the research have been since lost to scholars, and all we are left with is this text. The modern reader must take with a grain of salt all that is depicted within these pages; it is certain, of course, that the "death walkers" and "Dead creatures" do not actually exist. The perceptive reader will note the similarities between some of the rituals described herein and rituals commonly found in both  the Muggle Jewish and Catholic faith—two religions which greatly influenced Nostradamus' life. Indeed, some modern historians have advocated the theory that the **Treatise **__was in part a reaction against the pervasiveness of the Muggle Catholic faith and the interference of church in wizarding affairs. However, the **Treatise is priceless as a commentary on the social and cultural attitudes and beliefs of the time. **_

The preface was signed by a wizard with a very dour name, and dated 1972. Hermione frowned, and allowed the book to slide shut. In all of her studies, she had come across mentions of necromancy, all of which had been footnoted and dismissed by the editors of the editions as simply superstition rather than fact. But now she knew differently. Why had all modern texts gone to such pains to erase the credibility from necromancy?  

Determinedly, Hermione spread out a fresh scroll and dipped her pen into the inkwell. This would take some serious reading. She supposed that she would eventually have to go to Dumbledore and, ultimately, Malfoy, with whatever she found out, but for now, she just wanted to satisfy her own curiosity. She flipped the book open, and stared at the short column of names and dates listed neatly on the inside cover under the heading _Restricted Use—For Non-Circulation Only (this book has been armed with a Shrieking Alarm—any attempts to remove from library premises will result in detention)._

The dates were sporadic, and went back to the early eighteenth century. But it was the last name on the list that caused Hermione to catch her breath.

_Tom Riddle, 19­­­44._

 **

**Note:** Nostradamus was a famed physician of the sixteenth century who is also said to have been a Seer. I tried to be as accurate with the estimation of dates as possible. The Spanish Reconquista, or Inquisition, was an attempt by the extremely Catholic monarchy of Spain (Ferdinand and Isabella) to wipe out all other religions and institute a policy of strict Catholicism. Can anyone tell that I am a History major? ^_^ 


	7. QP: Part Three

**Queen's Play**

**Part Three**

Lucius Malfoy was a skilled liar. Years spent in the shadows, watching the tides of politics, putting his best face forward—as a Slytherin, as a Death Eater, as a prominent member of post-war society—had taught him how to easily slip from one façade to another.

Voldemort watched the man in front of him carefully. Lucius was too well bred to physically betray any sense of unease. Voldemort's only indication that something was off lay in the slight preoccupation which clouded the younger man's train of thought and measured his speech. 

A foolish man might believe that the presence of Macnair caused Lucius' disquiet, but of course this was not so. Voldemort promoted competition among his Death Eaters, relied upon it to maintain loyalty. All of them knew it, were accustomed to it, even counted on it; but they could not allow themselves to be overly distracted by it. No. It was not Macnair.

The Dark Lord shifted slightly and set himself to drawing Lucius Malfoy out.

First, Macnair. Voldemort waited patiently until the man stopped talking about Olaf Arneson (apparently, the great blonde Norwegian minister was a little _too_ perceptive for his own good) and politely dismissed him.

Then he turned to Lucius: "What do you think?"

Lucius thought for a moment, and replied, "I think Arneson is a liability. He has not been as…receptive…as we would have liked, and his government is well aware that the Trolls are getting restless, and have been spotted moving in the mountains. Something will have to be done about Arneson. Kalv is supposed to be taking care of it, but we didn't expect the minister to be so…involved. But certainly, the Trolls will be able to bring the ogres and other northern beasts with them, when they come. And my lord," Lucius continued, smiling blithely, "they _will_ come."

"I agree," Voldemort said. In the back of his mind, he was running over everything Lucius and Macnair had said and double-checking it against what he already knew. Something _would_ have to be done about Arneson.  But moving on: "Will you be able to keep Norway and its myriad problems off of Fudge's desk?"

Lucius smirked. "It's already done."

So. It wasn't Macnair, and it wasn't ministry affairs. "We can keep Fudge on a leash, but the rest of Britain might be a little more difficult," Voldemort said, and then, with a _non sequiter_ which would have made Slytherin himself proud: "Of course, it mostly depends on Dumbledore. How is the atmosphere at Hogwarts?"

"Oh, the same as always," Lucius said casually, and Voldemort knew he'd hit the mark. It was the boy, then. 

"And how is your son? I very much enjoyed meeting him." Voldemort looked Lucius straight in the eye.

 "Fine, my lord," Lucius replied promptly. "Busy as always. He's the captain of the Quidditch team, you know."

"How exciting for him," replied the Dark Lord, who was well aware of that fact and frankly, couldn't have cared less at the moment. "I would like to speak to him again, Lucius. I hear that you brag incessantly about his marks at school. Bring him to me again, and let us get his mind working for us." It was an order.

Lucius hesitated. Coming from someone with less standing, that alone would have warranted _Crucio._ As it was, Voldemort let the younger man sit in silence, and watched the internal battle play itself out. What Lucius was deciding, Voldemort recognized, was whether or not the information would benefit him most told or untold. The lie itself, if it came, would only be of secondary concern for both of them. Finally, Lucius looked up, and Voldemort knew he had won.

"My lord…"

"Yes?"

"My son sent me an owl several days ago, concerning an…incident…he has had at school…" With that, the floodgates opened, and Lucius told his Lord everything. When it was over, Voldemort sat in carefully controlled silence.  

"He has resurrected a ghost?"

"Yes."

A necromancer. What was more, a _young_ necromancer, one that could be controlled, with time. It was clear now, why Lucius had hesitated, and why he had finally told. He was an expert in many things, but not this. 

"Who else knows?"

"I believe Severus Snape, the, uh, resurrected ghost obviously, and, unfortunately, Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore knows?" Voldemort inquired sharply, and then collected himself. "Well. That is unfortunate. In any case, send for the boy, so I can asses him again. But don't be surprised if he has…trouble leaving the castle. Dumbledore with doubtlessly try and make up some excuse to keep him at Hogwarts."

"And if Dumbledore does try?" Lucius asked.

Voldemort shrugged, the muscles in his neck and shoulders shifting fluidly. "He is your son. I am confident that he will manage." And that should be sufficient to ensure that Lucius would bring his son at whatever cost. 

"You are too generous, milord….I do have a concern about the necromancy…"

"Do not be overly concerned. It is an unusual skill, but nothing to lose sleep over. It would simply be in our interests to remove your son from Dumbledore's meddling is all," Voldemort said, and knew that it would be enough to placate the other man for now.

Lucius Malfoy was a skilled liar. But his master was better.

*******

Hermione emerged from her interview with Dumbledore shaken but determined. The Headmaster had listened silently to what she'd learned, and when she had shown him Tom Riddle's scrawled signature in the book—thankfully, he'd not asked how she had managed to get the book out of the library—only his eyes had lost their twinkle. The strange, tall man who stood in the corner and assessed her every move did not react at all. From the corner of her eye she saw Snape move violently and then still.

Dumbledore thanked her for her assistance, assured her that Malfoy would be well taken care of, and politely and firmly shut the door in her face, with _The Treatise_ on the other side.

It probably wasn't the best thing he could have done. Hermione was Head Girl, the smartest witch in her class. What was worse, she was a member of The Three Terrors, as McGonagall used to call them, famous for not taking dismissal well and rushing off to do battle with only half the pertinent information.

Nevertheless, the Headmaster had chosen to shut her out. It was the usual thing. Head Girl or not, past experiences fighting Evil aside, she was still an ­­18 year-old student. She was still best friends with Harry Potter, who was one of Voldemort's—Tom Riddle's—main targets. It was probably for the best, then, if she did not get herself any more involved with Draco Malfoy and his myriad problems.

Hermione had expected that. She thought grimly of the stacks of notes in her room as she strode out from the Phoenix archway . And walked straight into Blaise Zabini.

***

The necromancer had chosen to conduct their first lesson in the lee of a small rise some distance from the Quidditch pitch. Hufflepuff was scheduled to practice in a while, reassuring Draco that no one would inadvertently interrupt. Sethos could have told him that it didn't matter anyways, but that would be jumping the gun.

Even for late October, it was chilly. Earlier, Sethos instructed him to wear light clothing and cover up with a cloak. "Layers are your friends," he had said, black eyes twinkling. Draco hadn't laughed.

He came over the crest of the hill and looked down. Sethos stood bareheaded, hands open and passive at his sides. The brisk fall wind stirred his hair and the dying grass around him. His shadow twisted grotesquely at an angle away from the long, disjointed body. His eyes appeared to be closed. A careless listener would pick up on the rustle of wind moving through the Forbidden Forest and the drifting sounds from Hogwarts behind. But Draco was born and bred in Malfoy Manor and knew how to discriminate. There was no sound in the shadow of the hill. He started down, feeling the brush over his skin that experience told him was a protective ward. 

Draco reached the bottom to find Sethos' eyes regarding him without having seen them open. Sethos said, "How do you feel?"

Draco stared at him. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling," he said shortly. "You weren't exactly forthcoming."

"Good. I know. It's better to go into this without any preconceived notions at all. Makes the transition go smoother. Now, have you heard of the Relashio Charm?"

"It's a Relaxing spell, one of the precursors to Petrificus Totalus," Draco answered, thinking back to the light voice of Professor Flitwick. "It was banned by the Ministry after scam wizards started using it to hypnotize Muggles for profit."

Sethos nodded. "The Charm induces a state of total relaxation in the receiving person. Muscles and tendons go completely limp. Petrificus Totalus is seen as an improvement because Relashio wears off after a while, and it's easier to move the victim—the limpness caused by Relashio makes the body extremely unwieldy. And with the development of the Imperious Curse, victims could be forced to carry their own weight."

"Yes, of course," Draco said irritably, having already possessed that knowledge. "If we were going to have a Charms lesson, couldn't it have been indoors?"

"Be quiet," said Sethos pleasantly. "Petrificus Totalus and Imperious force the body's muscles to contract. Including the heart. When a person in under the influence of those two spells, the heart palpitates faster and blood pressure rises. In addition, there is extra pressure in the Central Nervous System."

"That's fascinating," Draco drawled. "What, precisely, does it have to do with necromancy?"

"Nothing, really," Sethos replied. "But you were being impertinent." He continued on before Draco had a chance to retort, "The point is, these effects do not occur under the Relashio."

In his annoyance, Draco realized too late that Sethos had produced his wand.  As his eyes widened in shock, the necromancer waved it lazily in Draco's direction. 

"_Rilascia_!"

Draco was falling before he could even think, _You bastard._

*

He was sleeping. No, he was awake. He could feel the wind moving over his face. No. Was he dreaming? No. No.

Draco had been Petrified. Under Moody, he had also been under the Imperious. With both spells, there had been a sense of outrage, of helplessness. As a fourth year, he had not been able to throw off the Imperious, but he had been aware of the tiny little voice deep within him which shrieked protests at every order.

The Relashio Charm was like no curse or charm he had ever experienced.  It was most like the last threads of awareness that sift through the mind before drifting off to sleep; the last pull of consciousness before surrendering to oblivion. His body was floating up through itself. His mind had relinquished its hold on the physical and was sitting quietly, an empty vessel. Later, Draco would recognize how the scam wizards had made their money. 

He couldn't move. Later, he would realize that he couldn't have moved even if he had wanted too. Even later after that, he would realize that it had never even occurred to him to _want_ to move. The tiny little voice was silent. There was no tiny little voice in this space. But that was for later. Later.

*

"_Finite_ _Incatatum_!" Sethos barked, and it was like plunging into an icy stream in January. Suddenly and with total clarity, Draco was brought to himself. He sat up with a gasp, muscles moving awkwardly, and looked wildly around. When he had gotten himself half-way sorted out, he rounded on Sethos with a glare and surged to his feet.

"You bastard! You used a _banned_ spell on me!"

Or at least, that was what he intended to say. His knees gave out on the way up and Draco Malfoy pitched forward for the second time in ten minutes.

Sethos reached out and caught him, lowering the boy gently back to earth.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I needed you to experience it without thinking first."

"Why?" Draco spat out. His chest was still heaving.

"Because you are going to learn how to achieve that exact same state of mind without using Relashio. That is the state you must be in to cross the Barrier between Life and Death. But it needs to be accomplished without any prejudices."

Draco looked Sethos fully in the face. "That's how you do it? Isn't it a little hazardous to fall down every time you cross?"

Sethos allowed a hint of a smile to reach his eyes. "Eventually, you will learn to control your body while releasing your mind. I no longer fall to the ground."

Of course. Still looking up, Draco forced aside his feelings and said clearly, "Well then. What's next?"

This time, Sethos did smile. "Next is the Barrier. After that, we walk in Death."

***

The Head Girl fell backwards with a startled _oomph!_ Blaise watched her dispassionately without moving. Hermione righted herself and looked at Blaise warily.

"Er…Sorry," she said.

"Don't be," Blaise said shortly, and then without preamble, "I assume you were in there talking about Draco."

Hermione blinked and opened her mouth. Blaise cut her off. "Don't bother coming up with a story. I know about Professor Binns and I know that Draco's been acting strange and I can add to two."

"How do you know about Professor Binns?" Hermione asked, surprised. 

"I work in the infirmary," Blaise shrugged. "I was there when he was…brought in. Madame Pomfrey was so surprised that it didn't occur to her that it wasn't exactly something a student should be privy to."

"Oh." Hermione was somewhat at a loss.

"Yes," Blaise said levelly. "So it's true, then? Draco…resurrected him?"

Hermione said, "I don't think we should talk about this here."

So, typically, she led the way to the library.

"Now _what is going on?_" Blaise demanded quietly, seating herself opposite the other girl.

Hermione studied Blaise for a moment, and then began to talk. "I don't actually know that much. But from what I can gather…" 

As Hermione spoke about Binns, and the rush she'd felt, and then what she'd read in _The Treatise_, Blaise felt herself growing paler. So much of what she was hearing was so foreign to her that it bordered on the fantastic. Which was almost absurd in itself, considering that she'd grown up in the wizarding world. No wonder Draco had been acting so strange. Blaise wasn't sure what such a reversal of fortune would do to a boy who had always been supremely confident in who he was and where he was going. 

 Hermione suddenly stopped talking about the book and looked down. 

"What?" Blaise asked impatiently. 

"Well…the last time the book had been checked out was 1944…" Hermione hesitated again, and Blaise felt like hitting her.

"By Tom Riddle."

"Oh." Blaise felt the air deflate out of her lungs. The Dark Lord knew about necromancy. 

"What do you—?" Hermione began hesitantly.

"I don't know," Blaise cut her off. She didn't know what it meant, and she didn't know how it would affect Draco, and she didn't know what the hell she could begin to do about it.

"Is there anyone we could talk to, maybe?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Like whom? Dumbledore?" Blaise snorted.

"No. He made it pretty clear that he didn't want me involved."

"And why are you involved, exactly?" She looked the Head Girl straight in the eye.

Hermione looked straight back. "Because I was there when it happened. Because Voldemort"—she said the name without hesitation; it must have been from the influence of Potter—"could now be involved. And because it scares me."

Well, that made sense. Hermione Granger _would_ deal with her fear by researching it to death. 

"And I don't think Professor Snape would want our help either," Hermione continued.

"The professor knows?" Blaise asked sharply.

"Yes. He was there when I talked to Dumbledore. There was also another, strange man there. I think…he might have been a necromancer."

Blaise sat still, thinking hard. If Professor Snape knew, then there was a possibility that things would be all right with the Dark Lord. On the other hand… No. She didn't want to think about the alternative. 

"Do your friends know?" she asked suddenly.

"No—no," Hermione looked surprised.

"Good," Blaise said fiercely. "_Don't tell them."_

"Okay…but people are already talking."

"I don't care. Draco needs more time. The last thing I want is for Potter and your boyfriend to harass him about this."

"That's not fair," Hermione protested, but at Blaise's look, sighed and said, "I won't tell them."

Blaise nodded and got up from the table.

"Where are you going?"

"To find Draco," she said shortly and walked away.

***

"Don't get up. Lie down instead."

Draco stopped and looked up. "What?"

"It will make the relaxation process easier. Also, you wouldn't want to fall down again." Sethos ignored the boy's glare. "All right. Think back to how you felt under Relashio. You need to let go of your mind—"

"Be one with the earth," Draco drawled.  Sethos just looked at him for a moment, then continued. "You need to let go of your surroundings in Life in order to feel the Barrier. I can't exactly describe what it will feel like for you," he said, forestalling Draco's next question. "Everyone describes something different. But I can assure you that you'll recognize it."

Draco looked extremely skeptical but closed his eyes anyway, his brow furrowing in concentration. And so it began.

As he had expected, it took a long time. Sethos had deliberately not brought a watch, but he could tell by the movement of the sun how much time they spent there. As expected, Draco grew progressively more weary and concurrently more irritable as the day wore on and he found himself no closer to Death. 

"Draco. You need to _let go._ You have to trust yourself enough to do that."

"I'm sorry, but I can't just _let go_," Draco snarled. 

"Yes, you can!" Sethos barked back. "Draco, you're perfectly safe. Nothing can happen to you here. The first crossing is the hard part. Once you've overcome that…"

"I can't—my brain won't let me!" Draco's voice was ropey with tension. Sweat beaded his brow. 

"Draco, your brain belongs to no one else. You can do it—"

"—I just have to _believe in myself,_ yes I know that." Sarcasm pooled together with weariness. And still, Sethos would not let him give up.

The boy had gotten further than Sethos had initially thought. All that was weighting him down was his ingrained distrust of his surroundings; Sethos was willing to bet that there were few places where Draco Malfoy really felt safe. Unfortunately, they did not have the luxury of choosing their location. He decided to give it fifteen more minutes.

They were nearing the end of this allotted time when Draco, prone on the ground before him, sat up with a gasp. He looked around him in wonderment.

"I felt it! There was something—I can't—but it was there!" His eyes were wide and unseeing, and Sethos knew the boy was not looking at him, but was trying to match a visual with what he had felt.

"Congratulations, Draco. Do you think you could find it again?"

"Yes—I think—now that I know—Yes." He said it confidently, and Sethos felt his spirits rise.

"That was the Barrier. In order to cross it, you must allow the sensation you felt to completely take over your mind. If you stay open to it long enough, you will cross into Death."

The boy was glowing, all traces of tiredness gone. Sethos checked the location of the sun, and made a decision. 

"Draco: how much time do you have left?"

Draco blinked, and looked at the sky. "It's Sunday. I don't have anywhere in particular to be."

Sethos nodded. "Very well. We shall try and breach the Barrier today, but there are some things you must know. First of all, when a necromancer enters Death, he does so completely. That is to say, your body will leave the realm of the living. For any outside observer, it simply looks as though you've Apparated. The point is, you will leave nothing behind in Life." Sethos glanced down to see if Draco had caught all the subtleties this implied. The boy's face was unreadable. 

"Secondly, time does not work the same way in Death. How old do you think I am?" he asked abruptly.

"Er…mid forties?" Draco replied, slightly bewildered.

Sethos smiled. "If by forties you mean the seventeen forties."

Draco blinked. "Seventeen forty as in the _date_?" His tone was incredulous. "Even _Dumbledore_ isn't that old!"****

"Death does funny things to a man…" Sethos mused. "And one of them happens to be elongated life. Time moves slower there, you see."

"But—I mean, you don't look any older than my father!" Draco exclaimed.

"I know. You'll understand soon enough. It will happen to you too, if you spend enough time in Death. Anyway, I just wanted to explain those things to you. Are you still up for it?"

Draco hesitated, and then nodded firmly. "Let's do this."

*

Sethos went first. The necromancer closed his eyes, great shoulders slumping briefly. Then he was gone. 

There was no _pop!_ that accompanied Apparation. Alone on the grass, Draco sat contemplating the mystery his life had become in the last week. Then, decisively, he laid down and closed his eyes.

It was easier, now that he knew what to search for. It only took a short while before he reached the plateau that had so frustrated him before. But this time, he was able to move beyond it. This time, when the indescribable feeling brushed his mind, Draco allowed himself to give in.

***

If Draco had looked up before entering Death, he might have seen a familiar eagle owl winging its way across the slate-grey sky. Then again, it was rather far away, and he wasn't thinking very clearly. In any case, the eagle continued unmolested to the Owlery at Hogwarts, to wait for the master who would not, this time, come.

***


	8. QP: Part Four

**AN:** Arg. Not really sure why I'm posting this. But I had to do it, otherwise I'd have ruined it by constant re-editing… Anyways. On to the story.

**Queen's Play**

**Part Four**

"Wait!" Hermione called, jogging after Blaise. The other girl pushed open the doors of the library and kept walking. "What are you going to do?"

"I told you, I don't know. I just—I need to see him before I make any decisions."

Hermione kept pace as Blaise walked sightlessly forward and cursed the current political climate which kept her from asking the questions that really mattered. She wanted to know what, if any, information Blaise had about Voldemort. Hermione knew from Harry that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle Sr. were all involved with the Dark Lord, but no one had ever said anything to her about the other Slytherin families, and she couldn't exactly think of a way to bring the subject up without offending Blaise, or at least forcing her to become defensive. She was mentally trying out opening lines when she ran into Blaise, who had stopped, staring.

"Ow! My God, Hermione, this is really getting repetitive," Blaise snapped, but it was clear she was distracted.

"Why did you stop?" Hermione asked. Blaise was looking out the window directly in front of them.

"It's nothing, I just—I thought I saw Draco's eagle owl fly past."

Hermione was aware that if Blaise hadn't been so deep in thought, she probably would have lied.

"So? Doesn't his mother send him care packages every other day?"

Blaise rolled her eyes, but said only, "It's just…I was surprised, is all."

If Hermione had been intent on getting more answers out of Blaise before, that last, ambiguous answer only solidified her resolve. Hermione was now determined to get to the bottom of this whole mess, whether Blaise liked it or not. It was, of course, a very Gryffindor thing to do, as Blaise could certainly have told her.

* * *

"Oy, Harry!"

Harry was pulled abruptly from his Transfiguration homework as Ron and Ginny thumped down beside him.

"Have you seen Hermione anywhere?" Ron asked.

Harry shook his head. "I haven't seen her since breakfast. Have you checked the library?"

"See, I _told_ you." Ginny poked her brother. "I saw her a couple days ago with a huge stack of books, not like that's anything new. She's probably still holed up somewhere reading them."

"Hmph," was Ron's eloquent reply. "Well, if that's the case, I suppose she'll come find us when she's done. So, do you want to play Quidditch?"

"We can't, the Hufflepuffs are practicing," said his Quidditch captain absently, frowning at his homework. Ron smacked the table in front of him and he jumped.

"Harry! Look outside! It's nearly dinnertime; their practice has been over for hours."

Harry squinted around him. The weak evening sun trailed in through the windows, the dull lethargy of approaching night in sharp contrast to the gradual stirrings of activity as Gryffindor roused itself from a day of studying and prepared for dinner.

"Oh. I didn't realize it was so late," he said lamely. Ginny grinned at him as she got up, walking over to several of her friends who had come in with Seamus and Dean. Ron yawned as the two other boys joined their table, shoving Harry's books and parchment out of the way.

"Anyone up for a game of chess?" Seamus asked. Harry groaned and thumped his head down on the table.

"Oh God, anything but chess. I still haven't recovered from the trouncing Ron gave me last time from that—what was that move called, with the queen?"

"Queen's play," Ron replied. "The Queen draws your enemy out—"

"Arg. Whatever. I'd actually rather play Quidditch. Just let me put this stuff away."

Harry came back downstairs in time to catch Parvati inquiring about Hermione.

"…supposed to meet this afternoon to help me study, but she never showed up. Do you...?" she trailed off hopefully.

Ron shook his head. "Sorry Parvati. She probably got caught up in work and forgot. You know what the library does to her."

"Be sure to guilt her when you do see her, though," Ginny called from across the room. "That's always fun."

Parvati nodded, her forehead crinkling as she walked away.

"Hey, are you guys playing Quidditch?" Ella Johnson shouted at them. Beside her, Ginny winced.

"You think you're up to it, Johnson?" Harry yelled back at his Chaser.

"Oh yeah, Potter. My sister told me how to handle you!"

"Well, _that_ certainly calls for a 'dirty,'" Seamus remarked. Harry and Ella rolled their eyes in tandem. Spirits high, they all trooped out to the Quidditch pitch.

They played carelessly in the gathering dusk, the lengthening shadows striping the grass below and camouflaging the participants and the balls. Because there were only a few of them, everyone took part in Chasing, and everyone watched for the Snitch. They had only released one Bludger, and Ron flew about like a freckled Tasmanian devil, whacking away with abandon and without care for whom he was aiming at. The cold October wind whipped at their faces, flushed with laughter and exertion. The girls' hair, casually bound, gradually slipped free and flapped behind them like banners. They knew each other well, and so all played without much thought of strategy or consequence, relying instead on what each remembered of his immediate opponent's skills.

Harry flew lightly, his own natural talent taking over and allowing his mind to wander. With the exception of Hermione, various assorted Weasleys and some of the other adults in his life, right here were all the people he held dear in the world. He watched affectionately as Ginny, intent on a Quaffle, and Dean, ducking the Bludger, collided into each other and sank to the ground below, locked together in surprised hilarity. Above them, Ron crowed and Seamus took advantage of his distraction to score, ignoring his friend's belated shriek of protest.

Harry's reverie was interrupted by a flash of gold that darted by. He looked up, meeting Ella's narrowed eyes, and gave her a sardonic grin before turning his broom neatly after the Snitch. She came tearing after him, howling insults. In the end, she caught the Snitch, mostly as a result of a trick so dirty that Harry, astonished, was convinced it had to have come from Fred or George via Angelina.

The walk back to the castle was one long stream of raucous ribaldry and good natured tussling that continued until they entered the common room. Neville was waiting for them, brow furrowed.

"Ron, Harry, have you seen Hermione? She missed a meeting with me and Dumbledore. I'm worried," he said, without further explanation. Of course, none was needed. It was one thing for Hermione to forget about a study date with Parvati. But she would _never_ have neglected her duties as Head Girl.

Neville continued, "Dumbledore said something about her possibly being preoccupied by a meeting they had had earlier—"

"What meeting?" Ron asked sharply. "She never mentioned having another meeting."

"—and Lavender said that she'd seen Hermione in the library earlier with Blaise Zabini—"

_"What?"_ said practically all of Gryffindor.

"You did?" said Parvati to Lavender.

_"When?"_ everyone said together.

"Oh, this was before you were looking for her," Lavender said to Parvati.

There was a general silence. Then Harry spoke up. "Okay, so Hermione had a meeting this morning with Dumbledore that none of us knew about, then she went and, uh, talked to Blaise Zabini in the library, then skived off studying with Parvati and meeting with Neville."

"Maybe she's been possessed," said Seamus in an attempt to lighten the mood. No one laughed.

"Right," Harry said decisively. "First let's talk to Zabini, since Hermione was seen with her last. If she doesn't know, then I'll—er—" glancing at Ron, he hastily amended, "_we_ will go to Dumbledore. The rest of you, don't worry. I'm sure she'll turn up somewhere."

His housemates nodded, visibly relieved. Internally, he sighed. Yup. Still the Boy Who Lived.

First though, he jogged back up to his dormitory, followed closely by Ron. Pulling out the Marauder's Map, he smoothed the parchment over his trunk, repeated the familiar words, and searched for a name. After several suspended seconds, Ron sat heavily on Harry's bed.

"She's not on it."

"…Maybe she's experimenting with some sort of spell…" Harry trailed off as Ron shook his head violently.

"Don't you remember Crouch? He still showed up under his own name even though he was taking the Polyjuice Potion. She's gone off somewhere!"

"Well, are you sure she didn't leave you a note or something?"

"If she had, it got lost…I haven't gotten any notes."

Harry patted Ron's shoulder awkwardly. "I'm sure there's some sort of explanation. Maybe Blaise Zabini knows where Hermione is."

"If that isn't a bizarre sentence, I don't know what is," Ron muttered darkly as they walked back downstairs.

* * *

Ginny was waiting for them at the base of the stairs, her chin set. Fortunately, neither Harry nor her brother commented, but simply continued past, Harry quietly filling her in on the results of the Map as they walked down to where they supposed the Slytherin dungeons to be. Harry and Ron stopped, stared at the stone wall, and then at each other. Ginny sighed.

"You don't know how to get in." It was not a question.

"Well, last time Malfoy was with us," Ron said apologetically, then, on a whim, turned to the wall and shouted, "Pureblood!"

"Ron," said Harry levelly after nothing happened, "They don't usually use the same password within a span of seven years."

Ron merely shrugged. "I supposed we could try to blast the thing open," he said doubtfully.

Ginny sighed again and said, "Wait here. Don't do anything stupid."

She returned some fifteen minutes later, towing a young Slytherin in her wake, and was pleasantly surprised to find the boys slouched obediently against the wall. The Slytherin's eyes widened at the sight of two rather prolific Gryffindors standing outside his doorstep and Ginny smiled reassuringly at him.

"Like I said before, all we want you to do is go in there and find Blaise Zabini for us. Tell her we just need to talk to her, and won't take up much of her time." And as the child still hesitated, glancing warily at Harry and Ron, she added, "Here, we'll go wait at the end of the hall, if you like, so there's no chance of us hearing the password. Is that all right?"

He nodded, and she gave him one last smile before grabbing Harry and Ron firmly by the elbows and dragging them down the hallway.

"Where did you find him?" Harry asked, giving her the intense look that could still make her flush after all these years, damn him. Fortunately, Ron didn't seem to notice.

"Coming out of the library. It took me fully five minutes to convince him that I wasn't trying to attack his House. Damn these rivalries," she muttered, half to herself. Harry didn't reply. At the end of the hall, the boy threw a nervous glance at them and disappeared inside. They walked back slowly towards the doorway.

Six minutes passed and Ron began to fidget. "What's taking so long?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Maybe she's…otherwise occupied," Ginny replied absently.

"With what?" Ron snorted.

"Feminine distractions." She figured _that _would shut him up. She was right. For a boy in a relationship, Ron could be endearingly naïve about certain things. Then again, she couldn't really picture Hermione going into great detail about the workings of the female body with either of the two boys. God knew Ginny wouldn't.

After a bit longer, the door opened and Draco Malfoy slipped out. Harry stiffened.

"Well?" Malfoy said. "Can I help you?" He managed to make it sound suitably superior, as if they were scum wasting his precious time. Which, Ginny supposed, he probably thought they were.

"We're looking for Blaise Zabini," Harry said at last.

"She's not here," Malfoy said shortly. He looked exhausted, but Ginny thought she saw a sort of suppressed elation in his eyes. She was probably imagining it. She didn't know him at all.

Harry tried again. "Look, we're not here to start anything, we just want to ask a question. I promise it won't take long—"

"Have you gone deaf, Potter? I told you that she _isn't here_."

"Well, could you tell us where to _find_ her?" Harry matched his tone to Malfoy's.

"Even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you. I would never inflict Gryffindors onto my friends."

The situation was rapidly disintegrating. For the third time in under an hour, Ginny sighed and attempted to take matters into hand. Malfoy was turning to go when she said, quite clearly, his first name. She then found herself the subject of three pairs of male eyes ranging in degrees of astonishment. Well. At least she had their attention.

Ginny began speaking in a calmly measured voice; of the kind she had sometimes heard her brother Bill use to their mother, or the twins. "The reason we ask is that Hermione Granger has gone from Hogwarts, without telling anyone of use why she was going or where. As far as we can tell, the last person to see her was Blaise, after a meeting with Dumbledore. We were hoping that Blaise could tell use something. Can you help us at all?"

She thought she had seen a muscle jump in his cheek, but he merely repeated that he didn't know where Blaise was and hadn't seen her since breakfast. Ron opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by a quick look from Ginny. Harry did not say anything at all. With a last, encompassing look at them, Malfoy turned and vanished back the way he had come. No one spoke as they trooped dejectedly back to the Tower. Both boys could recognize expediency when they saw it, and even though Malfoy hadn't come through, they didn't begrudge her decision to confide in him.

It wasn't until they reached the common room that Ron was able to contribute to the Weasley Stack of Bright Ideas. "Harry—why not use the Marauder's Map? To find Zabini?"

"Oh," said Harry blankly and then repeated it, in quite a different tone. They sprinted up the stairs.

A minute later, staring at the map—

"Nothing," said Ron hoarsely.

Neither Blaise nor Hermione were on the Map.

* * *

Several hours earlier, Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, awaited the arrival of her son with uncharacteristic impatience. She had a million and one things she was supposed to be doing, and none of them involved her increasingly wayward—if still beloved—progeny. Of necessity, these things all had to be suspended until this other, unexpected…situation was resolved.

Lucius had been completely candied with her as was only proper, because it was an issue they would have to face together and because she would have found out eventually anyways. It was, of course, for the best that she knew. Lucius had realized early in their marriage that it generally profited him to include his clever wife in his planning. Indeed, they were well matched in breeding, cunning and organization.

Lucius had proved his abilities for the last twenty years, and Narcissa had faith in herself and in him. She was confident now, that she had identified all his deficiencies and could muster her own abilities to compensate accordingly. This…issue with Draco was a perfect example.

Lucius had a fondness for elaborate, delicate planning. And like a child, he oftentimes got upset when the balance was thrown off. This was not to say that he couldn't deal with any change in plans. He was brilliant in a catastrophe: then, all his quick-wittedness, his inventiveness emerged; he had the ability to identify and salvage the main pillars in any plan, and could shift whole stratagems in mid collapse. It was what she loved best about him.

However, when little, niggling details fell apart—such as that incident with the house elf several years ago, what was his name? Duffy? Nobby?—then, more often than not, Lucius lost his temper and she was forced to interfere. She understood. To plan on the scale that Lucius did, and then to have something as trivial as a house elf—a _house elf!_—disrupt him—Well. Of course he would get upset.

That was why Narcissa persuaded him to let her deal with Draco, at least initially. For no one had anticipated _Draco_ becoming a problem. And really, from what she had gleaned from her hurried perusal of the Manor's library, it wasn't even the boy's fault anyway. It was just a freak accident that no one could have foreseen. (But that also drove Lucius to distraction as there was no one he could then blame.) They would simply have to rearrange some things. So Narcissa gently but firmly packed her husband off to London while she remained for the initial meeting with their son. She had sent a Port-Key with her letter, and sat in her parlor, performing several other minor duties while she waited for the appropriate time. Then the clock chimed and she looked up expectantly.

It would be safe to say that nothing could have prepared Narcissa Black for the arrival, in the place of her golden child, of two disheveled girls in Hogwarts uniforms, holding her son's unopened letter and looking just as astonished as Narcissa herself felt.

* * *

**AN: **"Well, that certainly calls for a 'dirty'"—Stolen shamelessly from Gilmore Girls, back when it was still worth watching.


End file.
